Approval from Mom. That’s all we want, isn’t it? Well, maybe when we were three and Mom equaled the world. But now, isn’t it the world’s attention we’re really after? Okay, maybe not the world. But some very modest portion of it. A sliver.

Because writers spend a good amount of time writing, rewriting and worrying over it, because we endure rejection and self-doubt, we imagine that in recompense our book will at long last arrive, if not to pageantry and spectacle, then at least to some applause, a salute, a thumbs up.

Which did happen back in June to me and Wendy Call at our joint book launch party where we felt feted, buoyed by well-wishers. But once the guests had left, the musicians had packed up their instruments, and we had folded up and hauled away the rented chairs, well, the party was over. The manager of the gallery wasted no time in pushing a broom across the floor to remove the remnants—candy wrappers, napkins, toothpicks, paper plates, and fallen petals from congratulatory bouquets. Soon the room was clean. Empty, except for the question insinuated by the pile of post-party debris: Now what? Read more

We may be exiled, or considered black sheep, if we go away or astray. Not so with Hedgebrook. Somehow my email address was lost for ten years, and then they found me, and life hasn’t been the same since. Read more

A small group of alums met for a day of writing, reading and fellowship at Hedgebrook(lyn)—organized by alums Mary Armstrong and Holly Morris, who runs the PowderKeg, an urban writers’ retreat where we met.

At ten o’clock in the morning we had tea and fruit and chatter in the kitchen. We later planted ourselves at a handful of ancient writing tables spread throughout the loft, overlooking a row of windows with a view of Flatbush Avenue. I picked a table in the center of the room, just far enough from the windows that I wouldn’t be tempted to stare outside. Sitting there in quiet community, a story visited me about black women, depression and suicide that has been circling my creative mind for years. It is something like Ntozake Shange’s For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When The Rainbow is Enuf, but different. Read more

For awhile, after three delicious weeks at Hedgebrook, I thought maybe the problem had become worse, that Hedgebrook had ruined me for anything but long interrupted spells of writing. And, by long spells, I mean days and weeks, not hours. But, while it’s true that long interrupted spells bring something particularly to my writing, I know it’s not realistic, not if I want to produce. So I’ve been looking at ways to take advantage of those times when I have just a few hours, or even less. I thought it might be fun to share a couple of these techniques and it would be fun to hear some of yours. Read more

It is my last few hours here at Hedgebrook. I just completed my exit questionnaire and thought I’d share my response to this question:

4. What would you like others to know about your experience here?

As an alumna (Oak 2008) I was well aware that there are many ways to be nourished as a writer in mind, body and spirit here at Hedgebrook. During my return-stay, I managed to get in all three, resulting in a well-rounded, holistic two week visit! Here are a few highlights: Read more

Some of the best experiences are the hardest to describe. I began each day at Hedgebrook with a deep appreciation for the gift that was given in being selected to come here. And from the moment I stepped onto the property, I carried that gift and took it in. The staff welcomed me in an open-armed welcome. They sheltered me, as they do all of the residents here. Vito Z. gave me a tour and then showed me to Cedar cottage, my cottage for the time. It was spotlessly clean and had only and exactly what I needed (one plate, one bowl, one mug, one water glass, one wine glass…) perfect! A fire was ready to light in the woodstove. Ah, the woodstove.

“What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open.” ― Muriel Rukeyser

Twenty years ago, Anita Hill sat in front of a Senate hearing and told her truth at the intersection of race and gender. She was publically pilloried by a panel of white men. This weekend, at Hunter College, Anita Hill was celebrated by a sold-out, star-studded conference, whose participants had a chance to thank her for enduring what she has so that women today could stand on her shoulders.

After a full conference day, the evening was filled with stories, in a hot ticket night of performances curated by Eve Ensler. But throughout the day, there was a clear refrain that will resonate with all women writers. Read more

A couple weeks ago I received a phone call. The name was familiar, Yvette Heyliger, and when she said Hedgebrook— it all came back to me. Three years ago, I gave a wine tour to Yvette and two other Hedgebrook writers. I’d signed up to be a Hedgette, or a Hedgebrook Ambassador, and had listed wine among my many interests on the island. Read more